


The myriad applications and multiple uses for a Corellian HWY-280 class fresher. Article 342: One locking door.

by letheandmnemosyne (octobertown)



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Masturbation, Mirror Sex, Praise Kink, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:01:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28712451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octobertown/pseuds/letheandmnemosyne
Summary: So, Maul got you all a new ship. Hooray! Problem is it’s little more than a ration can with wings and there’s literally zero privacy. After one fated conversation about the sheer lack of personal space, using the fresher to get off, and Savage’s crap flying skills — and you’ve landed in the lap of someone who is quite possibly more than you can handle. Let this be a lesson: never underestimate Feral Opress. He’s learned from the best, after all.
Relationships: Feral & Darth Maul, Feral & Savage Opress, Feral Opress/Reader
Comments: 9
Kudos: 49





	The myriad applications and multiple uses for a Corellian HWY-280 class fresher. Article 342: One locking door.

First of all, Corellian HWY-class freighters are garbage. The cargo hold barely fits four pallets, the fresher is a tin can, and stars-forbid you actually want to fit four people in the bunk spaces. You’re slotted so tightly together you can practically feel the breath from the guy next to you blowing at the flimsy curtain you rigged up to give yourself some privacy.

Savage. That’s Savage blowing at the curtain. Because Savage snores.

Sweet guy, right? Sounds like a Shaak with a deviated septum at oh three hundred.

You informed Maul of all these facts prior to scuttling the last vessel — which, he claimed was too big for three Zabrak and little old you, and too obvious a ride for a handful of fugitives trying to fly under the radar to destinations unknown. Maul’s machinations at their best, right? Best not to ask too many questions when it comes to his decision-making process.

You knew what was up the instant Feral slid those pale eyes over to yours, lifted his eyebrows and smothered a grin when you tried figuring out how the four of you were going to notch yourselves into the flying hunk of space scrap: Maul had made up his mind. The rest was up to you, so you set about exploring the heap while Savage and Maul debated the best route to avoid the Empire, and Feral loaded everyone’s crap into the sleeping quarters.

Between the galley and the cockpit you discovered twin storage units: one for fuel (because of course the bucket would be too old to take an ion engine) and one (presumably) for supplies. Karking thing looked like a scooped-out coffin boffin, but you got greased up and snuck in there while making sure that the structural reinforcements were sound and that the hull wouldn’t crumple inwards or anything at lightspeed, and after a bit of clanging around and swearing, you still couldn’t figure out why they hadn’t used the space for the hyperdrive.

Okay, okay — this is the thing, though:

“It’s two-and-a-half feet at best.”

At the other end of that narrow corridor, Feral’s got his arms folded, considering you like he doesn’t see the problem. The moment draws out while you’re smearing engine grease down your coveralls, plucking the sticking fabric from your chest because you’ve been sweating into it for the last half hour and the zipper’s stuck.

You pretend you don’t see Feral’s gaze drop to the v of skin above your undershirt. You pretend you haven’t streaked dirt and oil over your neck.

Least sexiest look ever, and Feral finds something to linger on, his lips pressed together. 

Okay.

Fine, you’re gross. You get it.

He’s still not paying attention to what you’re saying.

So you flail a bit. “All that unused space on the outside is taking up precious corridor space inside.”

He glances over his shoulder, confirming that you’re both being ignored by his elder brothers as they endeavour to get the ship off the rock you’re on without cooking everyone inside the vessel. 

“There aren’t any supports in here.” You wave. “No straps. No rigging. We tip, we go flying.”

Feral gives you a cursory once-over and bites the inside of his cheek. 

“This really bothers you, doesn’t it?”

You sigh. 

He chuckles. “You just seem a little tense, is all.”

Fixing him with your best dour look, he cracks a smile that would otherwise warm you to your toes, but right now, given how he’s messing with you, a smile is the last thing you’ll afford him.

“What are you really angling for?” he asks you.

Deadpan, you ask, “What makes you think I’m angling?”

Feral eyes the corridor, ducking into it to join you, giving the walls far more attention than they deserve. 

“I saw the fuss you put up earlier. When Maul picked this ship,” he clarifies. Feral pushes out his lower lip, acting entirely too innocent. “You said, ‘We’d be living on top of each other.’ I never knew you’d eaten sardines on Naboo.”

You narrow your eyes at him.

“It was a metaphor.”

‘Like sardines in a tin,’ you’d said. 

Feral licks his lips. 

“You were right about one thing.” He nods to the back of the vessel. “There really isn’t much by way of privacy. The fresher is four foot square at best and the walls are paper thin — and it’s got the only door that locks.”

“So we all block our ears when someone —“ Poops, you meant to say.

He raises his eyebrows. “You’ve never lived in close quarters with three tense Zabrak males before.”

You blink.

Feral raises his eyebrows, waiting for you to get it.

What other purpose would the fresher be used for — ooooh.

Kark. 

You fold your arms across your chest as he steps closer, determined to dampen the flush in your cheeks as Feral edges into your personal space. 

“The bunks barely fit me, much less —“ He jerks his head back at the cockpit.

“Hence the fresher,” you say stiffly. “Because the door locks.” You blink a little too long. “Got it.”

He lifts a shoulder in a half shrug, examining everything but your face. 

“I’m definitely not thinking about Maul masturbating, now,” you tell him.

Feral blanches, his mouth dropping open. He raises his eyebrows, snaps his jaw shut. Takes a half step back from you.

“Savage said it was temporary,” you continue, not reading his surprise right at all. 

Not the way you’re supposed to. 

He clears his throat, undaunted.

“Savage will sleep upright in his chair if he has to. You and I — we might as well be sleeping on top of each other for all the space we’ll have back there, even without him.”

Because Maul never sleeps. Right.

A beat sinks.

You register Feral’s words a second later.

Mischief flickers in his gaze, tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You can’t tell if he’s teasing you, or flirting.

Something plummets in your stomach at that, blossoming low and fast and hot in your belly. You unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth, tipping your chin up to consider the amusement in his gaze. 

Definitely teasing.

Arse.

He searches your features, looking for some sign of discomfort that you refuse to offer him. 

Sniffing, you tell him with more bravado than you feel, “Doesn’t bother me.”

Your heartbeat pumps a little harder.

If this is a test of wills, you will win.

You don’t spend time with the Opress Bros to learn capitulation. ‘Surrender’ is not in their vocabulary.

Feral wipes his hands on his slacks, stepping back into the narrow space where his shoulders graze the walls. 

“It’s a bit snug,” he agrees, all innocence. Like he hasn’t been goading you for the past five minutes.

The vessel shudders as it lifts, the whole of it groaning in protest as you clap your hands to the walls and look overhead as if the roof is about to collapse on you both.

Feral flashes teeth, and in the dim, you wonder if his brothers’ influence isn’t turning him a bit reckless. 

“Savage barely makes it through this thing. It’s a hazard.”

You point at the ceiling — to the little scrapes in the surface where Savage’s horns have run runnels into the durasteel. 

The whole ship lists left, cants forward, throwing you into the itty bitty space, and you barely catch yourself, your nails scrabbling.

“That’s considerate of you,” he says. He sways a little, smiling a little. “I know he’s got a thick skull, but it’s not like Savage’ll pierce the hull.”

You’re not so sure of that. 

Some distant part of your brain is still snagging on the fact that Feral’s brought up masturbation and superimposing that lingering tidbit on Savage’s bulky form leaves you with a discordant image that only deepens your blush.

You clear your throat.

It gets worse, though…

“Are you okay?” Feral asks, reaching for your shoulder.

He never makes contact, though you get a good look at his long fingers and wide palms and some hysterical part of your brain lands on ‘Feral also probably uses the privacy of the fresher to get off,’ which awakens some other bundle of nerves elsewhere in you altogether because you absolutely needed that mental image clanging around with him standing this close to you.

You make a sound that’s probably more a whimper and squeeze your knees together:

The image of Feral bent over his cock, one hand splayed against the fresher wall, pumping his length while breathing hard leaves you puddling. 

Stars.

Why were you talking about that again?

You shake your head. “I’ve never used the fresher for —“ you start.

You don’t see the imperceptible widening of his eyes, nor the way his pupils dilate just a little, nor how the whole of his countenance darkens just a hint.

Something in the bow pings, rattling the length of the vessel at a scurry as the whole ship pitches backwards, then rights itself — hurtling upward at a swift rise that pulls streaks of clouds and condensation down the viewport in trickles. The next thing you know, the sky bleeds from pale atmo to the first gradients of wild space and then —

Feral’s facial expression changes before you feel the weightless lurch of your feet flying from the floor. You don’t even process how swiftly the collision happens, only the heat and hardness of it as you catch yourself on Feral’s chest and heave a breath in surprise; your mouth, your lungs, your world filling with the heat of his skin, and that particular dusky flavour of incense and sweat and that herby tea he likes with breakfast all mingling together. 

“Ow,” you manage.

The same time you recognize the spot you’ve caught yourself on is actually his chest, the impact you felt was his shoulderblades connecting with the storage compartment to your left, and the ship is still arcing forward into the air while on an angle that leaves both your limbs tangled together.

He squeezes your hip — just enough to register that he’s got you cradled to him, one arm wrapped around your figure.

His hand splays over the back of your neck, a breathy puff of concern in your hair when he asks,

“All right?” 

You think of how much you must stink; how you’re smearing all that gunk and grease from your exploration of the ship’s guts all over the clean, soft tunic he wears; how you must be totally repugnant to him that it leaves you just a little bit self-conscious — 

And with your face smushed into his pectorals, you have the audacity to mumble, “You’re poking me,” even as you shift away, concerned about whatever’s in his pocket and whether he’s been carting around his tools again like that even though you told him not to —

Your knee, slotted between his thighs, shifts half an inch, and Feral grunts, his grip tightening on you, turning rigid.

Gravity is making this so much harder, even as the vessel begins to turn, sliding you down the wall, tethered together. 

You withdraw from him enough to look at his face — as if staring at him head on will give you a better indicator of whether or not he’s bleeding and in pain — but his breath brushes your skin, your forehead his cheek, his mouth your temple, and something truly sordid happens to your insides.

“Stop moving,” he chokes out.

Whatever you hit wasn’t hard enough to bruise, but the friction wakes something low and warm deep in your belly that you shove aside for the immediate concern that he’s hurt.

The bend and flex of his ribcage beneath yours as his breathing stalls and starts turns scary. 

“Feral?” You push back, looking down because whatever’s jutting into your hip might be a pipe and oh stars please don’t let him be impaled on something —

Feral manages, “Kark, I’m sorry,” in a near falsetto, but you’ve already reached for his leg —

Oh.

Oh.

He pushes against your palm.

So that’s not a —

Well, it is sort of a tool, you suppose?

You jerk your hand back and he whimpers at the loss of contact.

Stars, this is going to be something to laugh about over spotchka shots later, you hope. 

“I’m sorry —“ he says the same time you do, a beat too late. Not really. No, no you’re not.

His face is inflamed, eyes half-shut for just a second too long, but when he slits them open at you something smoulders there, only to be snuffed by the sort of self-control you can only guess at.

You definitely don’t have any of that at your disposal — not, you remind yourself, being so well fitted together.

“Did I hurt you?” you whisper.

And part of you wishes he’ll say no, even as his grip tightens at your waist. He releases you a moment later, pushing you backward to put an inch of space between your hips, and then two, but the tent in his pants follows the notch of your thighs as if to point out where he’d rather be.

Feral swallows, his hands lingering at your hips. 

The ship levels off, but two of you find yourself tucked against each other in that narrow hallway, both blushing now. And why are his lips so full? Had you not noticed that before?

Feral searches your face, and taking a breath, he straightens — horns almost brushing the same gouges in the ceiling that his brother left behind. 

Puffing a laugh, he wipes a hand down his face. 

“I guess you’re right about the corridor.”

To punctuate the whole mess, the craft gives a stuttering jerk that tips you forward, Feral’s grip tightening but briefly as you steady each other, knees interlocking, his thigh between yours —

He huffs a breath that lights a path of heat across your collarbone, and you do not want to unwind your fists from his shirt.

Oh kriff. 

His hand is at your hip but his thumb brushes towards your belly button and something lurches in you, tightening at that small, tender stroke. This time, you stop breathing when the ship ascends through the last breach of the atmosphere.

“You might want to buckle in,” Savage calls from the cockpit.

You leap apart, your shoulders connecting with the locker at your back, your hand flying to your mouth. 

Right. No privacy whatsoever. Everyone can hear everything.

Oh hell.

Oh, karking hell.

Savage just smiles at you, and turns back to the controls. Maul mutters something that you can’t decipher.

And Feral? Feral is already halfway down the ship to the fresher — beating a hasty retreat that leaves your body tingling where he touched you, bereft where the contact was too brief, and aching where you wanted more. 

This is going to be a bumpy ride.

—

Everything’s fine.

Lying in your narrow bunk, staring at the collection of scuff marks in the roof a meagre four feet overhead, you’re grateful for at least the illusion of privacy afforded by the strip of fabric you’re using as a curtain. The boys don’t use them. Maul doesn’t sleep. Savage doesn’t care. And across from you, if Feral picks the bunk on the second level, the worst he might do is fall asleep facing you. 

Worst you could do is peek open an eye to see if he’s still up.

Half a body’s length between you.

Barely enough space to reach across if you strained out your fingertips.

You exhale a shuddering breath.

You peek around the curtain, and from far enough away in the galley, the clink and scrape of cutlery and glassware. But there’s no schedule with these guys. Lawlessness means rule-lessness, so whatever. They snack when they want to snack.

You’ve skipped dinner to have a few minutes to yourself post-shower, the discomforts of an empty stomach less embarrassing than having to share the same room as Feral for more than a few minutes.

He’s probably in the galley. You didn’t hear him enter the sleeping quarters. Then again, your heart hasn’t stopped hammering in your ears for the past hour so it’s not like you can hear much. 

Some part of you had wondered, of course — but that little curl of hope snuffs and blows away on your heavy sigh. You shut yourself into the gloaming of your bunk once more.

You’re orbiting each other in the small craft — carefully staying out of each other’s way, finding things to do elsewhere, avoiding too much proximity all at once as if his brothers might sense the tension and call you both on it. 

Low conversation from the galley: Maul and Savage contemplating their next move, hunched over a data pad, flicking through the maps on the holo. 

Feral, though: 

He shielded you from the impact, clutching you to him as if his body were a buffer against whatever harm might befall the two of you. You rub your fingers across your palms, thinking of the heat of him beneath his clothes —

A complication of hard planes and soft fabric, warmth and strength. 

His fingers at the back of your neck, though?

That lingered, seeping into your bones as if you could conjure the feeling of his hand curving around your vulnerable neck. Under different circumstances, you might hope that he’d card through your hair, or maybe he’d pull you to him — gripping you gently but with purpose though everything about the gesture screamed dominance. You shiver. Your nipples pebble.

Feral’s the sweet one, though — kind when he smiles. Good natured. You’ve thought of him like that, of course. You’ve compared notes on all three Opress boys — 

Feral…

Feral was always the one you’d kiss. Or marry. Whichever — the nicest option, you thought, but now you’re not so sure. You know what his brothers are like. You know Feral’s a quick study too. It’s not hard to imagine what someone might learn when they’re trained by the best…

You pull in a shuddering breath, your fingers drifting across your waistband experimentally. Your skin feels flushed, and if you shift your hips a little, you think you might be a bit wet too.

Tenderness, you know, is only a different manifestation of strength.

The thought strikes low and sweet and warm in your belly, curling into a pleasant tension that settles between your legs. 

You saw the way he looked at you. 

You felt how hard he was.

Knowing what you know now, you also know just how wrong you were about the darkness in his gaze; that imperceptible interest that ducked and curved when he realized he was looking and you thought he was grossed out. 

He’s only ever teased you for getting grimier than the guys when you’re working.

Maybe you didn’t realize it at the time:

Maybe you didn’t notice when he was noticing.

Oh, and P.S. You touched his cock.

You laugh to yourself, but it’s shaky.

Yeah, you’re definitely wet.

The thought of him anywhere nearby leaves you short of breath, much in the same way the press of his fingers through your clothes has turned into an itch you’re stopping yourself from scratching.

Your sleeping garments are uncomfortable. Too restrictive. Too tight. It’s too hot, so you flip from your side to your back and bump an elbow against the wall. It only adds to your frustration. 

There’s a thought that lingers:

You wonder if he’s in the fresher right now.

You wonder if he’s touching himself… to you. 

Your eyes flutter shut, your breathing shallows. 

What would his tattoos look like when he wraps the ring of his fingers around his length, running a thumb down his ridges experimentally as he gets hard. Does he spit in his hand, you wonder? Does he choke out the tip a little until precome beads for him, shining and dewy.

You wonder what he tastes like. 

You wonder if he’s a mouthful — if the smooth brush of his skin against your lips would be as tender as the way you’d pull him into your mouth, wrapping him with your tongue and swallowing him back to hear him make that surprised sound of pleasure again. 

Stars.

You rub your cheek against your pillow and you think about the brush of his face next to yours, skin against skin, those long fingers pushing aside your clothes. Breathing hard, you suck two fingers into your own mouth, getting them wetter than they need to be, but needing to suck on something for just a second to shut yourself up from making a noise. 

That they’d probably hear you in the galley isn’t as sobering as it should be, but you grit your teeth together as the fantasy shifts a little to accommodate what your body needs. 

Feral would absolutely kiss you after you sucked him off.

Your lips part, and you can only imagine in that empty space of inches between you what it might’ve been like if Feral had given you that hesitant, expectant smile before closing the gap. Would he have notched your lips together, pressing gently to part your mouth open? Would he have grazed his tongue against your upper lip as if asking permission? Would you have sighed open for him, getting your arms out of the way to press up into his chest as he would gather you against him, the heat and hardness of his interest against your hip, your knees giving out at the first sweep of his tongue?

You even know the sound you’d make for him, because you’ve whimpered it into the close confines of your bunk, your thumb hooked into your waistband, stretching down the elastic band of your panties, the fingers of your other hand easing lower into the slick warmth of your arousal.

It’s so quiet. Just a breathy whisper, like a summons:

“Feral.”

And that’s when you hear your name from the bunk below yours. There’s a question in it, and a little concern. It’s followed by the shuffle of bedclothes and the creak of the bunk moving and —

The curtain scrapes back, revealing wide, pale eyes, worry notching between his eyebrows that quickly bleeds into confusion, and then —

Feral sucks in a breath, his gaze travelling down your arm, your hand buried between your legs. You’re still arching off the mattress, throbbing to life, mouth opened on a sigh.

It doesn’t go the way you think.

He steps back, warmth flooding his cheeks, the partial closure of the drape not enough to conceal his utter mortification.

“Feral —” you say again and your hand makes the worst sound of all:

It echoes your desire, the slick pop of your fingers coming loose so you can wipe them on the sheets background noise for your thundering heart.

No. Oh no.

He shakes his head, his pupils blows wide and dark now, and when he swallows and tears his gaze away you think for a moment you’ve truly ruined it.

This is a breach of your friendship so absolute that there’s no going back.

He opens his mouth to say something, but no sound comes out. So you start struggling to cover yourself. Struggling to find something to say that will make it right.

Jaw clacking shut, Feral averts his gaze, giving you a parting wave choked with silence. He looks back to the galley, then back to you, pain crumpling his brow. He wipes a hand down his mouth, and for a moment appears as if he wants to say something, but he beats a hasty escape to the back of the ship a moment later — the sound of his feet hammering durasteel loud in the small space.

No. Oh —

You struggle into your pants. Struggle out of your bunk. Your heart in your throat and your pulse beating between your legs because you didn’t finish and now you won’t — you would never — 

“Feral!”

He vanishes.

The streak of stars beyond the starboard viewport tells you that you’re still in hyperspace; that there’s nowhere for him to go, but you hurry after in the direction that he went. It’s not a long journey. You reach the back of the craft, breathing hard, vision spotting from tension, your eyes burning and your lungs so filled to bursting you’ll likely cry or pass out before you have the opportunity to apologize — 

And that’s when you hear the clang of horns against the reinforced walls. The gasp and grunt of frustration laced with pain. You spin, finding Feral in the corner before the hatch, his forehead against the wall, bracketed by his fists. 

“Feral,” you say again, approaching.

You want to reach for him, but his shoulders quiver a little as he grinds his head into the durasteel. There’s a dent on one side of him, left by his fist.

“I really tried,” he admits, shaky. “Such a small karking ship. I heard your breathing change, and I thought you were crying because I — shouldn’t have pulled back the — complete invasion of your privacy —”

He blows out a breath. A laugh. His eyes are squeezed shut.

You stop before you can place your hands on him. Your fingers must smell like you, because he turns, the gleam of gold slitting to dawn colours when he glances at you finally.

“Sorry,” you say, pulling back your hand. “I’m sorry. You were right. The only door with a lock on it is —”

The fresher.

No privacy anyplace else.

You tuck your hand to your chest, not wanting to defile him with whatever sordid preoccupations have put you in this place. 

“I couldn’t —“ you start. Couldn’t help it? “I — You — then this afternoon and the hallway, and you were —“ You swallow. How are you supposed to explain that you’re attracted to him? That you were thinking of him while you were touching yourself. “We were talking about —“

“Masturbating.”

“Privacy, and how there isn’t any — and I started thinking about —“

“My brothers,” he supplies, drily. 

“You.”

You blink at him.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, weakly. 

“Me?”

You swallow your nerves. You nod. Glance down because you were thinking of his cock and how it was right there and you touched it and —

You shake your head.

You wanted more.

In a lower register, Feral arrives at the same conclusion.

Cautious, he hedges, “I wanted to be better.”

Feral pushes off the wall, searching for the words. “I wanted to be a better friend to you than…” He trails off. Shakes his head as if that’s not the right explanation. He’s breathing a little harder, his jaw working as he fits his fist against the dent he made in the wall. “I thought if I could just hide the way I felt a little longer, then nothing would change.”

It’s your turn to hitch a breath.

“I wouldn’t scare you if you didn’t feel the same way, and then this afternoon…” He breathes a laugh. A furrow sits between his eyes. He still won’t look at you.

Confused, you say, “But I did? I do. I —“ 

The confused, barely-believing it look on his face leaves you crumpling. You don’t understand. He’s embarrassed, clearly, but you’re not sure why. All of it, maybe? 

“I was wrong,” you manage. “The touching. It was completely —“

“What?”

“Inappropriate. I shouldn’t have. Even if it was an accident —”

“Touching yourself was an accident?” he echoes.

“No,” you start. “That was deliberate. I meant that I touched you earlier, and I felt —“ How ready he was. How interested. How thick and heavy and hard. You clamp your mouth shut so fast your teeth clack.

Feral’s gaze darkens. “What did you feel?”

Your voice snuffs to a bare puff of air, hardly even a whimper. The beat of it hasn’t been shocked from your body yet, and thinking about it only kindles the heat again. You shift, your nipples pebbling against your tank top. You’re not wearing a breast band, and when Feral looks down, he can see the way they poke at the fabric.

He makes a fist, then loosens his hand.

You’re breathing hard.

He flicks his gaze up to yours.

“I think it felt like the point just before the point of no return,” you breathe.

Feral’s torso angles towards you, almost inviting you into the space created by his arms and the wall. A noise down the vessel drags at Feral’s attention, and in a blink, he’s pulled you out of the line of sight of whoever might be moving around down there. 

His arm stays put, bracketing you between him and the wall at your back, half-cast in shadow with only the glow of his preternatural gaze keeping you pinned.

“You said my name,” he says beneath his breath.

A weight sinks with the observation, spiralling down your spine and settling to sit like a heavy heat between your thighs. 

“I said your name,” you agree, but it’s barely a whisper. 

He leans in a little, gaze cresting over your features — your flush, your heaving chest. 

His brow furrows as if coming to the same conclusion as you: everything’s already changed.

A beat.

Your heart drums.

Against your mouth, he puffs in a breath that tastes so sweet that your eyelids flutter, “Would you say it again for me?”

Desire spirals downwards to spread heavy and warm through your limbs. Your hands press into the wall at your back, scraping for purchase as if the lower tones of his voice welcome only the most secretive promises:

You and him. 

Alone in a darkened alcove. 

You shiver on the inhale.

Stars, you want to.

You’re going to. 

You’re about to say so when you both hear Savage call your name, then Feral’s, and then, “Where are they?”

Feral doesn’t wait for confirmation, two fingers sneaking into the waistband of your pants and yanking you after him as he spins you into the itty bitty fresher, shutting the door behind you, your shoulders the force that closes it. He latches it without looking, leaning into you because there’s no space for anything other than proximity.

The backs of his knuckles graze over the heat of your sex, over your panties, and every muscle inside you contracts with sharp, involuntary abandon. He hasn’t let go of your pyjamas.

Feral swallows, searching your face. His index finger presses gently into the notch of your sex, and you suck in a breath as he repositions his hand, turning it to cup you. Slowly. Gently. Fingertips shivering over your softest, most sensitive parts — barely there; just enough pressure that you cant your hips back and ease your thighs open an inch with a sigh. 

Your hands make fists into his tunic.

“Is this okay?”

You search his gaze. “It’s the only room that locks.”

Stars, he’s so warm, but you shiver anyway.

Your eyes flutter shut and open again, finding his smile so close to your mouth; his shining eyes the whole of your world; lips soft and inviting. 

“That is does,” he agrees. 

Feral cups your face, brushing a thumb across your cheek, and against your lips, he asks you so nicely, “Say it, please.”

It comes out like a whine, half-hitching and broken, and just a little desperate with surprise that it feels so good to feel him pull the crotch of your panties to the side. You might as well be begging:

“Feral.”

His smile brushes your mouth as he presses his lips to yours, his hand finding its way around your neck as he steps into you, tipping your face up to meet his kiss.

The glide of his fingers is surer than you expected -- nothing hesitant about it. Feral smiles against your mouth, eyes half-lidded, and breathes, “You’re so wet.”

Eased into your folds, the wet heat of your arousal all too accommodating for not one but two long, sure fingers as he sinks inside you to the knuckle. You’re so shocked by it that your mouth opens in a gasp, accepting a casual sweep of his tongue. 

You thought he’d be shy.

You thought he’d be tentative.

“It’s not the most romantic spot,” he says against your mouth. “And you can’t make any noise otherwise they’ll hear you, but —“ He smiles, pecking a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “It does afford a moment alone. A little privacy.”

You nod, trying not to squirm beneath his touch.

“I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” Feral whispers. 

“Is this what you do in here?” You whisper-whine back. “Leaned up against this door, do you… touch yourself?”

He nods, eyes lidding. “While thinking of your sweet little pussy.”

Heat blooms low in your belly, your hands gripping for purchase, and you’re whimpering when he starts to move, winding tighter to pins and needles and that light-headed, so-near the edge sensation that leaves you stiffening with surprise and pure, trembling need when he curls his fingers and drags them against a spot inside you that you’ve never once reached by yourself.

The sound you make earns you a “Shh,” and a nip to the lower lip.

He’s chuckling when he starts to move inside you.

“You’re so tight,” he breathes against your mouth, and kisses you again. 

It’s almost too much and simultaneously not enough. 

“Feral,” you whine. “Why didn’t you —“ 

Your breathing hitches, the pressure changing as you squeeze on him. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

The hand in your hair tightens at the roots, and he’s kissing you again — a devouring, really — that fills your world with the taste of him, the slide of his tongue against yours filling your mouth like he’s filling your body; the simultaneous sensations of having him wrapped around you, thighs bracketing yours, the elastic in your panties tugging at your hips with each thrust. 

When Feral looks down, he looses a tiny, desperate noise as he cups your cunt, squeezing all that softness against his palm, possessive and warm and so indulgent that your eyes flutter shut. He’s pushing your shirt up past your breast with his other hand, rolling a nipple between his thumb and index finger, looking at your body as you buck and sway for him. 

Feral shakes his head. Licks his lips. Pulls your pants down further so he can watch himself finger you. 

Stars. You never thought it would be like this. 

Circling your clit with his thumb, he half-laughs, “I suppose if you don’t touch yourself in the fresher —” He shrugs. “I’ll just have to do it for you.”

Like there were ever any other options —

You’re reaching for his face before you can stop yourself; thumb sliding against his smooth, hard jaw to brush over the soft pillow of his lip. He bites at the pad of your thumb, but he’s distracted.

“I’d like that from now on,” you say.

He slows, and those pale gold eyes soften.

You swallow your nerves, the flood of your desire threatening to swell over you, taking you down with it as you caress his face, sliding your fingers between his horns, rubbing the skin between them so that his grunt of pleasure leaves his eyes fluttering shut. 

When he rumbles his interest, it sounds like a purr.

“Feral, it’s always been you.”

His gaze slits open, turning calculating, less guarded now. You lick you lips, and clutching at his arm, you drag yourself closer to him, holding him in place to touch your lips to his; to grind your hips against his fingers.

That gold gaze darkens to bronze.

“Do that again,” he dares, and sucking in a little breath, you do with a soft moan of pleasure.

“You like fucking my fingers,” he says, but there’s something in his tone that’s turned assertive.

You don’t have the time to agree. You don’t have the time to beg for more.

This time, when he nudges your face to the side with his nose, Feral hums as he sweeps his tongue up your neck to the extra-sensitive spot below you ear. The sound rumbles through you, and when he takes a mouthful of your neck to suck on, the sensation leaves you completely incapacitated.

It’s not a feeling that centres in one place. It’s a shiver that unfurls at the point of contact and lifts your skin into sensitive pebbles that you feel everywhere.

When you cry out, he only circles his fingers, his thumb finding your clit as he fucks you into the fresher door with that skillful hand.

“Shh,” he breathes into your ear. “It’s okay. I’m going to help you finish.”

When he sinks his hand into your hair again, a shiver passes through you when he directs your mouth back to his, watching you through half lidded eyes, your breaths mingling.

“Do you like that?” he asks softly, a smile in his voice.

Feral kisses your cheek with a tenderness that betrays the strength of the hold on you he’s managed to negotiate. Your spine is arching already, your hips bucking as he brushes over the point you need his touch the most. You release a strangled, plaintive noise that’s all vowels, and he answers with a huff and to sink his teeth gently into your lower lip to keep you from crying out.

“Hush, sweet,” he whispers, kissing away your moans. 

“Feral, I’m going to —“

“No, love. Not yet.”

And he withdraws, fingers sliding from you, pressing two to your clit and circling so that you gasp, your hips slamming back into the fresher door.

“I’m going to turn you around now,” he tells you. “And I’m going to give you what you need most.”

His hands cup your ass, already pulling down your pants by inches, folding you into his lap. He kisses your neck, sweeping your hair out of the way. His hand cups your breast, the other working himself free of his trousers.

For one brief moment, you feel the hard press of his cock brushing your hip. Your ass. When Feral eases you forward to place you hands against the door as his other hand delves between your bodies, slipping inside you and pulling you open once more, you think that this is probably the least complicated solution either of you have ever arrived at — the easiest. The most real.

He rubs your back, making soothing strokes down your spine.

“So perfect,” he murmurs. “This pussy is perfect. This body —“

And with a brush of his lips against your ear, the smooth, hot heat of his cock rubs against your folds, getting it wet.

“I just want to bury myself in you. I just want to feel you clench on me when you come.”

You freeze, breathing hard as he slicks himself with your arousal; trying to process the length and girth of what you’re feeling and how your body trembles a little at the prospect. There isn’t enough room to see it — but you feel the hard, taut ridges of his shaft rippling over the entrance to your cunt and you seize up anyway.

“Feral. Please,” you whisper.

“Kriff, I love it when you say my name,” he breathes, and the heat of his appreciation is enough for your knees to buckle. 

“Please, what?” he teases.

You groan, pushing back on him, wanting more. 

“Please fuck me, Feral,” you manage. “Please fuck me.”

He swears. You feel his grip tighten on you, and the swift, sharp clap a hand against your thigh. 

It stings, and you swivel around to see Feral’s eyes blown wide and dark. Hungry. 

“Yes,” he says, and his kiss turns into a devouring as he arches you back to get to your mouth. “Yes,” he says against your lips.

When the tip of his cock presses into you, Feral holds you against him, kissing your neck in slow, big swallows that leave you sinking down with him as he fills you up.

One ridge at a time.

Until the whole of his cock has you pinned to the door, cold durasteel under your hands, the heat of your confidant and companion keeping you anchored, his breath hot against your neck. 

Into your ear, he whispers, “Is this what you had in mind when you groped me earlier today?”

You manage a shaky laugh, clenching on him so that his answering groan feels like maybe he should have thought about teasing you at all, and manage, “Fuck yes, Feral.”

He breathes a chuckle into your throat, teeth grazing your tender skin as he eases out an inch. 

You whimper, but he holds your hips in place as he soothes you by slipping back in. 

“You can’t scream,” he warns, fingers squeezing the fleshy parts of your backside as he withdraws again, a little further, with a ripple that plucks against every tensed string inside you. 

Your eyelids flutter, your body grasping in desperation as his palms move over your stomach, your ribs, your breasts. As he squeezes and groans his appreciation. Smoothes his hands down your back, running traceries with his fingertips, the backs of his knuckles — like he’s memorizing every inch of you; taking the time to map your body as if it’s the only thing he’s thought about for ages and now that he has the chance —

He doesn’t want to miss anything. 

Feral’s thumbs part your ass cheeks, hitching his hips to press deeper into you. Right to the hilt. 

You throb to life on him, your heartbeat centred the connecting point between you. You make fists of your hands instead of reaching for the back of his head — instead of grinding on him like you want to.

Feral pats your ass. Squeezes it.

You gasp a little, and he edges that cock a little deeper. Teasing.

“No noise at all,” he reminds you.

“Fuck,” you manage when his fingertips find your clit again, swirling that over-sensitized numb of nerves into wakefulness.

His other hand wraps around your throat.

“I love seeing you like this. Keep your hands just there, okay? You’re going to want to hold onto something.”

So you scrabble for anything and land on the crossbar that braces the door.

“That’s it,” he says. 

You make a plaintive, pleasing noise, feeling him slipping from you as your juices slick him further the longer he waits inside you. 

Feral’s fingertips, scented with your arousal, brush your lips. “Shh, sweet. You look so good on my cock.”

You whimper. You nod. You want to pull your own hair. You press back onto him, pleading silently to be spread; to be taken; to be ruined. 

“Are you going to be quiet for me?” he asks one last time.

And you practically snivel, “Okay.”

He draws in a breath, and you can feel the curve of his smile against the shell of your ear. His palm splays over your chest, arm notched between your breasts. He presses a kiss to your cheek, satisfied, placing a hand on the door beside yours and —

“Good girl,” he whispers. 

Everything inside you goes rigid at the praise.

And then Feral starts fucking you.

It takes three thrusts before your vision whites out, your mouth falling open in a silent howl whose sound only catches up after a moment of blinding bliss as Feral angles his hips and strikes that point of tension that quivers for wanting to be broken. His large hand wraps the bottom half of your face, smothering the sound you make; half a wail and half a laugh. 

For a few moments, the only sound is the wet slap of his hips against your ass; his balls striking the back of your thighs, and then the door groans beneath the simultaneous push and pull of both your efforts. 

You grip his wrist, fingers sliding off the door so that punishing pace he’s set shakes your whole body. You try to hold it in, but pleasure rises on a crest that wants to drag you down with it. When he slaps at your clit with his free hand, you nearly break.

Into your ear Feral breathes, “Do you want to watch?”

Everything seizes up as you gasp into his hand, whimper-crying as he swirls your body tighter, your knees collapsing together as he doesn’t let up. When you turn your head little to the left, he smiles into your cheek.

“There’s a mirror, just there.”

You gasp when he withdraws his hand, your mouth hanging open to see yourself splayed for him; the arch of your spine a smooth descent that connects with all that lean muscle and strength pinning you over. Everything winds a little tighter as you take in your own dishevelled appearance, and the way Feral looks back at you — 

What you see in that reflection is a blaze of gold and black as Feral tugs his shirt off, slowing his thrusts so that you can see the gleaming shine of your arousal on his cock as he pumps in and out of your cunt. Smiling that coy half-amused grin of his, he smoothes a hand down the curve of your back as he rolls his hips into you and tips his head back, satisfied.

It’s a look of such rare satisfaction that you gasp, your body edged to the brink of whatever control you had left.

“Feral,” you breathe as your body tightens. “Feral,” you beg.

“Do you like that?” he asks, his eyes holding you riveted in the mirror, leaning over to draw your body into his chest, the glide of him inside you unrelenting even as he dapples kisses over your shoulders — across the back of your neck.

You nod, helpless and trembling, watching those large hands ease over your curves once more, possessive. Proud. But tender. Warm. You whimper, wanting to bury yourself into the sensation of being close to him, and Feral, sensing it, wraps you to him, holding you close as he slows to a languorous, easy rhythm.

You turn your head, accepting an easy kiss from him: the heat of it lingering.

“Then be a good girl and come for me,” he breathes.

So you do:

The swell of it engulfs you, sending black spots over your vision that dance into colour even as you forget to breathe. He holds you to him, slowing but not stopping, letting each stroke of his cock renew the wave of pleasure that leaves you boneless and sagging, reaching around the back of his neck to grasp at more of him because you need everything and then some.

Holding you, kissing your neck, petting your breasts and stomach as you come down, throbbing on his cock, he touches gentle fingers to you as he draws you into his lap, lowering you both to sitting.

“I can still feel you coming,” he smiles into your shoulder.

So you roll your hips experimentally, just to see if there’s another you might be treated to, and his grip on your hips turns a little harder in warning.

He grunts, so you do it again. 

“Your turn,” you say, peeking over your shoulder to find him a little flushed and still hard as anything inside you. You rock against him, winding your hips into an easy circuitous rhythm.

“Kark,” he grinds out.

“Touch me, Feral,” you breathe, and when you place his hands on your breasts as you find the leverage you need to ride him, you know that the desperate gasp of appreciation isn’t just from the feeling alone. A glance in the mirror reveals his attention fixed on the connection point between you; Feral, watching you ride him, and you, watching Feral. You’d laugh, but it feels too good to see his mouth opened in surprise, his eyes half shut —

So you raise your hips a little lighter, and your movements become a little more erratic as you find that spot again, and reach for your clit to help yourself out.

He groans, and the sound echoes in the small space.

There’s a smile in your voice when you promise him, “I can’t put my hand over your mouth like this, but I don’t care if everyone else hears you —” 

You find the pressure you need, your second orgasm cresting as you tip your head back, rocking against his cock.

“In fact,” you manage. “I think I want them to know exactly what we’re doing in here.”

There’s a little seizing, choking sound as Feral bucks —

The brief silence that precedes the torrent punctuated by a little hitch of his breathing as he grips you to him —

And roars his release.

You follow him gladly, spinning over the edge and wringing out the last dazzling burst of pleasure with a groan of your own. 

Finally, breathing hard, he chuckles as he slips your legs to the side, pulling you around so that you’re better positioned in his lap. He drapes an arm around your waist, considering you with a small, warm smile lingering about his mouth.

Outside the fresher, you hear Savage mutter to Maul with perfect clarity, “I think we might need a bigger ship.”

And farther back from the cockpit, Maul replying, “I think we might need an entire planet.”

Feral grins. You kick your feet.

Kissing the tip of your nose, he pulls you closer to him, turning those soulful eyes up to yours with a look of pure innocence, and says, “I mean, living on top of each other and in such close confines isn’t possibly the worst thing…”


End file.
